What kind of pig is spicy?

Transitioning parental reactions in adapting to adult children can sometimes be tricky. Learning to ignore cleavage could take up an entire chapter of the book I one day plan to write. Gasping, wide, horror-filled eyes, and clutching your heart expire as acceptable responses when your off-spring have successfully sprung the nest and are living (mostly) responsibly and financially independent lives. 

So when I called Sydney the other day, I quickly interpreted her out-of-breath response and explanation that she was watching "Peppa Pig" with Stephen as my clue to go. Hanging up quickly, I responded to my husband's confused inquiry with "I believe Sydney is occupied with a young man." Let's just say, Brad is NOT transitioning to being a parent of adult daughters as well as I am. "How do you know?" he asked, "Did she disclose the family safe word?" "No," I admitted, "but she invoked a societal symbol of intimacy." Brad frowned as the phone rang.

"Mom, why did you hang up so fast?" my daughter asked. Explaining that I didn't want to interrupt a private moment, Sydney quickly explained that, at the moment of my phone call, Stephen was upset that Sydney had decided to turn "Peppa Pig" off. "Sydney," I said, exasperated (A mother can only take SO much), "TMI." There was a long silence as everyone fought to control their emotions. "Mom, you do know that I'm babysitting right now, don't you?" A photo text came in with Sydney snuggling Stephen in front of the TV.  

"It was a legitimate misunderstanding," I told my family as they gleefully added "Peppa Pig" to our short list of safe words to utter when one is kidnapped and stuffed in a trunk (or trapped in an unending conversation with an annoying person at a social gathering). Frustrated, I quickly provided proof that I, alone, had not assigned pornographic traits to a cartoon pig but that the world at large was aware and concerned about her penis-shaped head (Words that I never thought that I would write in a blog). 

To address this issue going forward, Sydney assured me that, were she ever in a compromising position when I called her, she would simply NOT answer the phone. "Don't tell her that," her father warned, "Now, whenever you don't answer her calls, your mom is going to assume you're watching Peppa Pig."
 

How would you like a boot tray up your...mountain?

As I am generally a pretty laid-back and patient person, I imagine that you would be surprised at the things that set me off. Clubbing baby seals for example. Or neglecting to responsibly cut up six-pack rings leading to the inevitable strangulation of unsuspecting ducks. How about rewarding the arrogant driver, who waited until the last possible moment to merge, ample space to slide in front of you? But the WORST, has to be the school-wide informational email about NOTHING OF IMPORTANCE!

So when Felicia alerted THE ENTIRE SCHOOL about her and Tyler's missing boot tray...I may have over-reacted (a bit). To be fair, I initially reacted in a mature fashion. Deleting said email. Stewing about it for half the day. Then complaining about it to every colleague that I encountered.  Until finally, I began to devise revenge plots for her derailing my day with such a petty, nonsensical matter. Sure, I had lesson plans to create and papers to correct, but creating a time-wasting scavenger hunt seemed a much wiser use of my time. 

Revenge Plot #1:  Fun fact: Turns out that Felicia and Tyler's classroom isn't the only doorway guarded by a delightful boot tray. The ENTIRE 3rd grade sports these pompous puddle catchers which are common only to the upper crust of society. Grounded in reality, my wet boots sit comfortably on an old towel, not unlike Norm from "Cheers" as he takes residence on his worn bar stool. I wonder if the 3rd grades' morning milk is delivered atop a silver tray as well?  Anyhoo...let me cut to the chase. I stole ALL the boot trays. There. I admit it. Slap me in cuffs. Throw away the key. I don't care. It was worth it. I piled them up on top of the Pepsi vending machine (The last place anyone from THAT team would look as they are all ridiculous health fanatics who consume either soy-laced or green pulp-y beverages.) and wrote up a series of elementary clues that even the most simple-minded would be able to solve

easily. Super fun.

Revenge Plot #2: I thought that one diabolical plot would be sufficient to purge my need for evil-deed doing but apparently I am not as mature as I like to think. My second plan involved some athletic-ability. "What are you doing?" my husband asked as, clutching a whimsically-decorated boot tray, I began to climb a two-story mountain of snow next to the school parking lot. "I need to bury this so it looks like a gravestone on top," I explained rationally. "Of course you do," he sighed, pulling it from my hands and easily scampering up the snow. "Are we done now?" he asked resignedly. "We just need a few pictures," I assured him. "Of course you do," he sighed, reaching for my phone. Picture successfully posted to social media, Revenge Plot #2 was in place. "But where IS it?" Tyler asked later. I stared at him, dumbfounded. "It is towering right over YOUR parking spot," I told him. I really needed to start looking for a more worthy opponent. No surprise...it was Felicia who bravely scoured the incline to retrieve the boot tray and, bonus points, rode that baby down to the ground.

Revenge Plot #3: Just in case somebody missed the point that I was DISGUSTED by a school-wide email alerting us to the disappearance of a boot tray, I decided another little prank would seal the deal. I arrived at the school on a Saturday morning with materials in hand. Before commencement of Operation Boot Tray (Part III), I decided to take preliminary measurements. I emitted a little scream of frustration when the boot tray would not fit in the faculty fridge. Sitting on the floor, illuminated by that little light bulb, gazing at shelves filled with rapidly-expiring morning milk, a chill suddenly ran through my body. Perhaps this was a divine intervention. Perhaps the Lord was patiently telling me that it was time to let this grudge go. Well...you know me. I know when enough is enough. I grabbed the boot tray, closed the refrigerator door, and stepped back into the corridor, intending to return that boot tray to its rightful home. Except...there, in the hallway...like an angel...a messenger sent straight from God...stood my friend, Sarah. I smiled. "Sarah, don't you have a refrigerator in your room?" I asked, knowing FULL WELL that Sarah had a refrigerator in her room. She didn't say a word as I successfully slid the boot tray on the bottom shelf, the room suddenly filling with the affirming sound of an alleluia choir.  "I'll be right back," I told her excitedly, "I just have to fill this boot tray with Jell-o!" "Of course you do," she replied.

The fall-out from this little jiggly joke was Tyler trying to offer the tainted treat to several unsuspecting colleagues throughout the day. Tyler even took a cup into our administrator's office! Does this man have no boundaries? No decorum?  I heard my boss exclaim how he loved blue Jell-o. "No-oo-oo!" I cried, racing in to rip the cup from his hand. "It's boot tray Jell-o!" Yet somehow, even though it was I who saved him, I was somehow blamed for that little fiasco.

I THINK it's all out of my system now. I believe that I successfully communicated, in the most gentle and subtle way possible, that school-wide emails should be limited to matters of vital importance that directly effect the entire school community. You may have wondered, over the course of this writing, where the missing boot tray, of which Felicia felt compelled to compose an emergency APB, was and how it was initially returned. Turns out, the boot tray, a known hallway hazard, had been inadvertently sucked up into the mechanism of the floor-drying Zamboni. I'm surprised that, like a stone under a lawn mower, it didn't fire from the machine as a deadly projectile. Maybe I should send out a school-wide email, warning others to steer clear of the 3rd grade corridor for fear of being maimed or murdered by their fancy boot trays.